


In Service of Man and God

by Calliopinot



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Episode: s04 The Doomstar Requiem, Gen, a traitor amongst them, but the goal is for you to hate him less so, excessive Magnus apologism, hate me instead of Magnus?, i hate me too it's okay, it's basically his manifesto, ps there's a good bit of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 21:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: Magnus explains himself.





	In Service of Man and God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jack_BaptismOfBlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jack_BaptismOfBlood/gifts).



The first person to die at the hands of Dethklok was just 24.

She was beautiful. Cropped pink hair, almost rose. Pierced nose, a delicate little stud, not a hoop, she didn't look like a fucking bull. Deep-set brown eyes. Normal. But beautiful.

She followed us across Florida when we busted our ass on the underground scene. She was there in the audience when Donnie Deacon heard us, when he said these guys could fuckin _be_ something. She was there the whole time, through all of it, through busted amps and piss-reeking venues and crashing beer bottles hucked our way.

And she was there for the music. That Swedish cunt tried to hook up with her in Destin but I would not fucking have it. My hand hurt for a while after but it was worth it. Her honor was worth it.

She died at that kid's first show. Just like that. A freak accident, something about the lighting, and then there was no more pink hair or nose ring or deep brown eyes.

I never even knew her name.

I thought I was the first casualty, back then, but I was lucky. What's a knife in the back and a blind eye compared to that, just being gone, donezo, someone else wearing your blood for the rest of the set and some black-hooded assholes throwing you away like broken strings. She didn't mean shit to them. None of their fans ever did or ever would. Nobody did, not even their own.

The body count only rose after that. Kids trampled in mosh pits. Pyrotechnics leveling entire nightclubs. Dirty sluts ripping each other's throats out just to get backstage.

And nobody batted an eye. Nobody even fucking blinked. It was metal, they said, perfectly brutal, just the street cred this band needed to become holier than Satan himself, to pave their road to glory with the guts and bones of the people who got them there.

Including me.

In Offdensen's mind, in his cold, grey view of the world, as long as those guys were protected legally, everything was fine. It's okay if a dude gets his legs chopped off by a faulty piece of stage equipment. He signed a release. He knew what he was getting himself into. It's okay if that wannabe Malmsteen son of a whore knocks up a hundred skanks. They signed away their rights to his fatherhood.

Never mind that stage equipment shouldn't just go flinging out into the crowd. Forget using a goddamn condom. There's no morality. No fucking responsibility. Not with Dethklok.

This stuff didn't happen when I was around. I kept our heads on straight. We had a plan, a purpose, a goal. Make fucking music, make it good, make people happy and make ourselves happy. Simple.

But that wasn't good enough. They wanted something I didn't. I wanted something they didn't. Their laziness in the face of my perfectionism drove me up the wall. And so that big bastard took my eye and my band.

Something corrupted them, then. Not fame. Celebrity doesn't account for death tolls in the hundreds of thousands. Not money or power. Even though whole governments bend to their will, lest they break under the might of the Klok, those idiots have less grasp of their preeminence than they do of their own limp dicks.

The kid.

It was when the kid joined up that they started to change. It was when the kid joined up that death started following them around like a starving puppy begging for its next meal.

I tried to ignore it. Tried to move on. Spent seven years at the bottom of a bottle. Would still be there if my liver hadn't pussied out on me. Sobriety was agonizing, being back amongst the living and productive. Teaching guitar to braindead teenagers. Clocking session time for bubblegum popstars. Touring around the country as a motherfucking washed up burnout wiping the asses of grown men at rock star sleepaway camp.

Dethklok was about to get another victim, whether they knew it or not. Nobody would read too much into a heroin overdose. I even scored a speedball, was gonna go out like Belushi and fuckin River Phoenix. Fuckin Jerry Garcia, man. The obits would be about the man and his demons, his twisted private life, his legacy as a founder of the greatest death metal band the world had ever known. It would've been fitting.

But then I got wind of some things that changed my mind. A group of people, like me, wronged by the Klok and armed to the teeth. They had the strength and the wherewithal to set things right. I was intrigued, but not convinced. Not yet.

And then a little birdie told me about an incident. The kid killed a man in cold blood, with his bare hands. Oh, I'm sure Offdensen tried to keep that piece of news under tight wraps. Threats of death and records wiped clean and memories erased or whatever bullshit his off-the-books lab is cooking up these days. But those threats don't work against his own bread and butter.

The kid needed to be dealt with. They all needed to be dealt with.

 

The look on that Swedish bastard's face was orgasmic. It was almost as satisfying as plunging that knife into the kid's gut. They're gay for each other, that's obvious. I took his little bitch away and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing any of them could do about it.

And look. They're still not.

But how many people have died needlessly since you've been here? How many innocent fans have had their eardrums blown out by that dildo's screeching guitar? How many cities have shrugged at the bloody riots that break out every time Dethklok plays a show?

I put a stop to the Klok. I halted the gears. I ended the suffering of billions. So you have to take up their mantle. Don't you see how vital a role it is you're playing? You're a martyr, my dear.

Just like me.

**Author's Note:**

> One of two fic giveaways over on Tumblr (if you're not on Tumblr, I urge you to join up. I do stuff like this... sometimes). My tormentor requested: Magnus. Make me want to not hate him completely.


End file.
